


The Patient

by Mr_Edwards



Category: Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury, Ray Bradbury - Fandom, The Pedestrian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24564616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Edwards/pseuds/Mr_Edwards
Summary: He wakes up to a soft robotic voice. Where is he? Will the voice be a friend or a foe? This short story is a fan-made extended scene of Ray Bradbury's The Pedestrian (1951).
Kudos: 4





	The Patient

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own this storyline. With exception to a few characters, all the other characters and plot are based on the short story “The Pedestrian” by Ray Bradbury.

“Good morning, patient 25461,” a soft mechanical voice, resembling that of a human female, spoke from the ceiling. “Please arise and await further instructions.”

Everything was a crisp white. Clean as can be, the slick walls and ceiling encapsulated the space. From the upper corners a bright, but diffused light shone. Patient 25461 opened his eyes painfully and with a confused gesture. He had heard the command and even though he didn't know where he was, he followed through with the instructions. With care for his sore muscles, the man in a white medical robe stood up from the small bed; a chill climbed up his spine from where the bare feet touched the cold floor. The room had no ambient noise, it was completely silent. There weren't any air conditioning units buzzing gently or beeping machines. This environmental condition was worsened by the fact that there was a lack of windows and doors as well. It was a closed white cube with a bed; that was it. 

Yet, patient 25461 was not in a state of alert. Granted, he was confused, but it was a peaceful setting with no apparent danger. He looked around, his pupils contracting and dilating as they adjusted themselves for a clear view. On the upper area of a wall he spotted a small circular panel that stood out ever so slightly. It was centered and had five holes in the middle. 

“Must be a speaker,” he thought.

To his surprise, his internal note was answered. The caring voice came back, flowing from the disc panel. 

“Patient 25461, move away from the bed and stand in the middle of the room.” 

“Wait. Excuse me, ma’am,” he referred to the speaker. “Where am I?”

But he was instinctively pushed back in a cowardly manner as a hiss came from behind him. With pneumatic actions and mechanical clicks the bed began deconstructing itself. A leg folded over another; the mattress rolled onto itself; the frame snapped apart. It all seemed to be receding into the floor like melting candle wax. Soon the room became completely empty and the man stood alone, now in the middle. 

“Your feeding is due now. Please stand by.”

Patient 25461 began to realize that he was, in fact, a patient. The medical bay bed, the kind ‘nurse’, scheduled food time; it made sense. Well, not completely. He still wondered about his own whereabouts, trying to remember any previous memories that might lead back to this place. His efforts were futile.

For that, he was rewarded. The speaker panel opened up and dropped a single pill. It was one of those two parts, plastic-like lozenges. However, what stood out the most was its shiny black coating.

“Eat.”

The man walked towards the wall and picked it up. He held it on his palm, admiring the contrast it had within the room. In his head it seemed like a humorous juxtaposition.

“Eat,” the nurse repeated. 

Looking up he questioned the voice, “I… I don't know what this is. Can I… talk with the doctor?” Silence stood still. “Please?”

“Patient 25461, eat.”

It wasn't really a choice; he had to obey. Was he really going to stare at a white room and simply hold a pill? No. He opened his mouth and swallowed it. As expected it had no taste and slid smoothly down his throat. Then it was back to the emptiness. 

Although his mind was anything but empty. Wondering whether it was a dream, realizing it wasn't, and then hoping to meet a real person who could answer his questions and get him out. But no one came and so the silence was broken by the next round of dancing hisses and pistons. A corner piece of the walls behind him retracted to an abyss momentarily. It then came back, this time pushing a white metallic table into the room. On it, a matte black typewriter stood as a flower vase. 

“Patient 25461, we know you find pleasure in writing.”

He was perplexed and the peacefulness he originally felt began fading away. The voice spoke truth, though. Patient 25461 indulged in literary writing during his free time. From poem to novels, he clicked-clacked away as the rest of his neighborhood laid their eyes on the screens. One letter at the time he had managed to create a personal library of 235 different pieces of textual work. However he did not remember those details and just knew about the fondness of typing. 

He started, “Yes, I do like to–”

“Write,” the voice interrupted monotonously as always.

His face wrinkled in awkwardness and slight fear. It was time to write, then. He turned around to approach the typewriter. He hesitated what to write; he wasn't sure of anything anymore. Still, standing in front of it he began punching the keys:

I am in a white room.

Patient 25461 chuckled to himself and continued:

The voice speaks to me. She is direct.

As he typed that end period a bolt of electricity constricted his nervous system. He pushed back in retaliation and fell unto the floor, his body twitching faintly. He was shocked, literally and figuratively, and laid groaning on the cold floor. It was at this same time that sirens began ringing outside the room, but they could not be heard inside.

“Write.”

“Ah!” The patient got on his feet, wondered if he was actually a patient or a prisoner, and talked to the voice. “What was that?”

No answer came from the speaker. The sirens kept ringing. The room remained quiet. 

Once again patient 25461 walked to the typewriter, his robe swinging to the rhythm of his limping. Before resuming the writing he had to flex and stretch his finger, just like a piano player before a big melody, to ease the pain.

I have been shocked. I don't know why.

His text became a reality; it happened again. This time however, memories flashed in his head as he shrieked. He saw his own typewriter on his desk; he saw his various bookshelves; he saw his house door and how it was kicked down suddenly.  
The patient opened his eyes panting and felt his face. None of this was right; he was being held hostage and tortured. In reaction, a stream of valor rushed to him and kicked the table down as a reaction. The pristine matte black typewriter crashed onto the floor, spilling ink and launching many keys as it impacted the ground. The sirens were not able to reach in and alert him of any possible danger.

“I’m done,” he thought. 

The voice disagreed with a tone of robotic displeasement, “Patient 25461, you have damaged property of the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies. You will be punished accordingly.”

“Wha… what! Who are you? What are you talking about?” the patient spoke out with adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Patient 25461, you have damaged property of the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies. Wait for further instruction.”

“Be quiet! Let me out!”

“Patient 25461, you have damaged property of the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies. Security personnel will be with you shortly,” the voice repeated with more volume. 

He snapped. Reaching for the heavy and broken typewriter, patient 25461 shouted, “Stop it!” What proceeded was the bulky machine crashing into the speaker panel after being thrown to it. The voice stopped with distortion.

Abruptly, the pneumatic hisses came back and a section of the wall under the speaker began sliding down. The sirens' screams rushed in and flooded the room, forcing patient 25461 to cover his ears. A large hallway was revealed; it was being painted red by the rotating lights from the alerting signals. He stood surprised, but knew he couldn't stay there. Exiting the room he glanced at the tag over the outside of the doorway:

Patient [25461]

His quick inspection was interrupted by the sound of the approaching stomping of metal on metal. Was it the security personnel? He had no time to think; he ran towards the opposite direction. As the sirens illuminated his way and gave him a background noise, he came to a stop when he approached another patient. It was an older man laying on the floor, seemingly hurt. This was verified by the blood puddle he laid on.

“Sir? Are you alright?” patient 25461 asked nervously.

Grunting, the man turned his head to face him, “You need to get out… run.” 

“How… how did I get here?”

“They detained you for writing… just like they detained me for walking.”


End file.
